


The Gift

by CassieIngaben



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben
Summary: In Rome, Klaus points a gun at him. Dorian doesn't take it well.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 9
Collections: From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isindismay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isindismay/gifts).



It had taken Dorian all he had to cling to his usual insouciant facade. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the muzzle of Klaus's gun pointed at him; feel his bones freeze and his legs crumple under him with the certainty that Klaus could have—almost had—killed him. And yet, there had been no choice but to keep going; so Dorian had kept going. Until he was safely at home, and could crawl under the bed covers.

* * *

Dorian tried to focus on the Louis XVIII clock through eyes puffed up with oversleeping. Five? Five PM, since a watery light licked the rain droplets quivering on the windowpanes. But which day? Impatience at his pusillanimity warred with languor. _There is nothing worse than feeling sorry for oneself. Just get over it._

He rolled on his back, and tried his own advice. And failed. He was feeling sorry for himself. He could not get over it—over the fact that Klaus had wanted him dead. _When did it all start being so serious, anyway? I used never to be serious, aside from work_. Oh, to turn back time to how it was Before. To forget. To make it all go away.

Dorian turned over towards the bed stand, as if hypnotised. His address book was still there. He stared at the enamel-and-ivory inlaid peacock on the volume's cover. Slowly, as if underwater, he reached for it. The rain was pelting against the glass panes faster and faster, louder and louder. Dorian's hands flirted with the fine-grained paper, fingertips gradually recognising well-worn pages. Yes.

* * *

The music was different, but the teeth-shaking volume was the same. Just like the efficient, impersonal courteousness at the entrance—only the briefest wait to re-instate his membership, and he was ushered in. Dorian wasn't really surprised that The Gift was still in business. Most clubs came and went, yet this one was so specialised it felt timeless. _When was Russian Roulette invented?_

Dorian sauntered along the area closer to the entrance, where it all just looked like a disco—and most likely was. He wended his way through the crowded dance floor, ignoring the bodies sliding against his even while their heat seeped into his groin. _Slowly. So slowly. As slow as a funeral procession_. He went on through a progression of rooms; larger, smaller, darker, brighter. All over, the thumping heat of men's bodies, hearts racing, blood pounding. Heat. Blood. _Would a bullet feel hot? Would it feel at all_?

The bitterness was so strong that even the sickly taste of the terrible cocktail could not dissipate it. He'd come here to forget. To turn back time. To once again lower himself onto harem-plump cushions, and feel silk against his belly, and flesh against his back. To grasp a fistful of the tassel-shaped tokens each of the men gave him in return, waiting until the end to count them, just before passing out with exhaustion. _The tassels on Klaus's Bedouin robes, woven with green and gold, matched his eyes._ He'd almost told him; but then he had hoarded the image, unspoilt by jeers, for moments of loneliness and longing. And he had been right to hoard it. Look where telling Klaus what he felt had got him. Dorian considered the Oriental room for a few more moments, but then turned away and threw himself onwards, letting passers-by feel him up or steal a few kisses as he jostled aimlessly with them.

When he found himself in the relatively deserted room at the far end of the club, Dorian realised that it was where he had been headed all along. His heart jolted, and he went completely hard. _Russian Roulette._ The light was dim; its brick-red hue should have been cosy, but it drew unpleasant shadows. Someone came up from behind him, and Dorian turned to find himself face to face with a tall, black-haired man. _Not him; but close enough it could be him, if I let it._ The man smirked.

"You look so morose. Bug-chasing?"

Dorian kept looking at the man's well-built figure. At the biohazard tattoo over his left collarbone. He touched it. _The gift of death._ Wondered what would happen if he licked it. If it would taste metallic. _Like a gun muzzle._ The man pressed Dorian's fingers over the symbol of contagion, and drew their bodies together.

“I bet you like barebacking. And maybe you would like a Gift from me?”

Spellbound by the steel-hard erection against his, Dorian scrutinised the smug, hard face as it slowly closed in on him for a kiss. Drinking in the solicitous cruelty that made him look so similar to Klaus, Dorian let the stranger's tongue enter his mouth. Then he pulled back and considered the tattoo proclaiming the man's positive status. _Is this what you want for me, Klaus? To make it all go away. Make me go away. Should I want that, too?_

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by the controversial 2003 documentary _The Gift_ , about people 'bug-chasing'—deliberately seeking to get infected with 'the gift' of HIV. Or at least flirting with the idea. Which way will Dorian go?


End file.
